


What It's Like

by fourteencandles (thingsbaker)



Series: Here's Us Together [3]
Category: Entourage
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/fourteencandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So this is what it's like, Vince thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It's Like

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007, no real spoilers past Season 2. Originally posted to livejournal when I was writing as fourteencandles. Thanks to Shoshannagold for the beta!

Vince is asleep until he hears the suite door open. Only three other people have keys to his room, and when the bed dips next to him, he knows it’s Eric. “Hmm?” he murmurs, feeling a brief gust of cold air when Eric slides in close under the sheet.  
  
“Hey,” he says. He smells like the girly lilac soap that’s in all of their bathrooms, which Johnny refuses to use. Vince lifts up a little and snugs one arm around Eric, pulling him in close, his breastbone under Vince’s cheek; he doesn’t open his eyes. They’ve been in Austria for a month now, filming almost nonstop since hitting the ground. Vince is in the middle of the first full night’s sleep he’s had in a week, but he’s had even less quality time with Eric. Which is probably what Eric’s doing here now.  
  
“Hey,” he manages, opening one eye. “What time is it?”  
  
“Early,” Eric says, his arms settling around Vince’s back, his hands cool but not icy. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
“’Kay,” he agrees, and does just that.  
  


* * *

  
  
When he wakes up later, Eric’s still there, leaning back against the headboard, his laptop sitting just to the side so he can, apparently, type with one hand. His other is settled in Vince’s hair, and Vince realizes, slowly, this is what’s been keeping him soothed in half-sleep for the last hour or so. He rolls onto his back and smiles up at Eric. “What’s up?” he says, around a yawn.  
  
“You, finally,” Eric says, and he looks down. “Morning.”  
  
“Yeah.” He rolls out of bed and into his small bathroom. They don’t have luxury suites on this set, but the accommodations aren’t bad. They all have private bathrooms – well, Turtle and Johnny have to share, but there’s nothing Vince can do about that. He offered to switch with them, hoping maybe Eric would take the hint, too, but instead Eric argued Vince needed his rest more than any of them, so he’s got a suite. Sitting room, bedroom, decent-sized private bath, and a balcony. Not bad, for mid-budget film.  
  
They have been having a good run here. The filming is grueling but the dailies look amazing; Eric’s excited, Vince is excited, even Ari, from eight billion miles away, is excited. They’re going to have a good product when they finish here – in another three weeks, most likely – and that’s worth the cold and the cramped quarters and the smallish paycheck.  
  
Beyond that, it’s nice to be out of L.A. They’re coming off a stretch of bad press – Vince’s DUI last summer makes him cringe whenever he thinks of it, and in L.A. it’s been the first question on every reporter’s lips. Worse than that, it was a summer of bad times, where Vince and Eric drifted further apart than they ever had before. The result was both of them having to make some changes, and as much as it sucked – rehab, therapy, all of it – it’s worth it to think it won’t happen again. He and Eric are together, now, trying it for real, and that’s been the best part. No one knows but the two of them, but so far, that’s enough. Sometimes Vince just looks over, when he’s waiting for a shot, when he’s waiting for the elevator, when he’s watching TV at night and waiting for Turtle and Johnny to call it a night, and he catches Eric’s eye and he can’t help it, he grins. He feels warm and happy, safe, better than he ever has. It’s fucking amazing, and just looking in the mirror he smiles at his reflection, because this is how it’s going to be, from now on. Them, together.  
  
He hits the can, brushes his teeth, washes his face, and walks back out in just his shorts. Eric looks up from his computer.  
  
“What are you working on?” Vince asks.  
  
“Nothing that can’t wait,” he says, and shuts the computer and slides it under the bed.  
  
Vince rubs his belly, watching Eric’s eyes follow his hand. “The other guys?”  
  
“Gone,” Eric says, and then he clears his throat, because his voice has suddenly pitched a little high. “I, uh, it’s a long story, but they’re gone. And I put the chain on the door.”  
  
“Awesome,” Vince says, and he skins off his underwear before he crawls across the bed to kiss him.  
  
Eric leans up into the kiss and slides his hands into Vince’s hair, which is longer than usual for this film, just past his chin and morning-tangled. Vince straddles Eric’s body, his kneecaps level with Eric’s hipbones, and he closes his eyes and Eric’s mouth opens and he tips his head to the side just a little, just perfectly, so Vince can really get his tongue involved. They are getting, Vince thinks, really good at this. Not that they were so bad before, but in the month that they’ve been seriously together, Vince has learned some things he never knew before, not even after fifteen freakin’ years. For instance: when he bends his head and sucks just beneath Eric’s ear, that tasty little spot on his neck, Eric’s grip tightens just briefly in his hair. And if Vince keeps one hand on Eric’s belly while the other slides up and rubs his nipples, he can feel the tiny flutters in his abs, Eric trying to hold himself together when Vince moves back to his mouth. He’s learned they both like being on top and they both like being on the bottom, though Eric usually only likes bottoming if there’s a fair amount of foreplay and, honestly, what Vince thinks of as “forecuddling” beforehand. Vince usually doesn’t care either way, so most times, like this, he’s happy to do whatever Eric wants. He’s learned, too, that Eric’s a little shy about saying what he wants – he’s not particularly vocal in bed at all – but he’s starting to be able to read the signs.  
  
Today, Eric slouches low, drawing Vince down onto the bed with him, on top of him, which might seem obvious, but, Vince knows, it’s far from it. He concentrates on kissing Eric, because they’re very good at this, too, this they were good at even as teenagers, and he feels the tension building in Eric’s shoulders and across his chest. Eric’s hands suddenly stop roaming Vince’s back and clench on his shoulders, and then suddenly Vince holds on, rolling over with Eric, so now Eric’s looking down at him, serious and wanting.  
  
Vince leans up and kisses Eric, holds himself up without hands – with silent thanks to his drill-sergeant of a trainer– so that he can work on sliding off Eric’s T-shirt. Why Eric sleeps in a T-shirt, Vince can’t guess. He does it at home, too, even though the chest beneath it is nicely defined, covered in rough sunset-colored hair that Vince likes. They both have their hair things. Eric loves Vince’s hair. He’s never said it, but Vince knows. When Vince wants Eric’s attention, he sits on the couch and tips his head back, lets his hair flutter around, and he watches Eric’s hands twitch, ready to sink in.  
  
Likewise, seeing the neat orange triangle of Eric’s chest hair peeking out from a crisp shirt on any given day, well, it reminds Vince of exactly how it feels to rest his cheek there, or to see that hair matted with well-earned sweat. So right now, with Eric’s shirt gone, Vince takes a moment to run his hands over Eric’s chest, feeling the pleasing, sharp prickle of the V between his pecs, then pausing to pinch, gently, his nipples. Eric’s mouthing Vince’s collarbone, which is close to driving him crazy. What would really do it is to feel Eric’s teeth, just a little roughness, but Vince knows Eric won’t cross that line. Not while he’s filming, not while he has to be in makeup for an hour every day. Eric won’t leave a mark on him. Maybe, Vince thinks, when they get back home.  
  
Eric pulls back, grins down at Vince, then slips down his body. Vince grabs the sheets instead of Eric’s hair when his mouth closes on Vince’s cock, because Eric likes that better. Vince supports anything that Eric likes better, at this point, because he wants Eric completely into sucking him. He loves this, it’s maybe his favorite thing, Eric working so fucking hard to be good at giving a blowjob. And he is good – he’s very good. He is close to being the best Vince has ever had just on sheer technique, but of course it’s more than that. The thing that gets Vince off on this is the furrow of Eric’s brow, the concentration, the real study he makes of using his tongue just so, of sucking in _exactlythatwayohgod_ , and the way that, if Vince says anything – like right now, when he says, “Oh Jesus, E, yes,” – Eric will do exactly whatever he just did again. And he will remember, and do it next time, too.  
  
So it’s no surprise, really, that it takes Vince almost no time at all to come. He can’t even feel embarrassed. That’s another beautiful thing about the new arrangement: they’re together more often, so there’s time, now, for being a quick shot, for the occasional one-sided rendezvous, for the odd afternoon where all they do is make out on the couch. He doesn’t have to worry about making every moment count, about holding off to make things last because this will be his only chance for a month, two, four, whatever. Now, he can lay back and enjoy.  
  
Which is precisely what he does, now, drifting in a haze of half-sleep while Eric lays light, cool kisses across his lower belly, then out over one thigh, which he’s carefully lifting up and to the side. Vince blinks and stirs himself enough to help, bending his legs up and out while Eric gets a bottle of lube from somewhere on the floor. Another advantage to regular sex is having supplies always at hand. No more scrambling across the house half-naked, hoping there’s moisturizer left in the guest bath, no more using cheap hotel lotions or worrying about the reaction of Vaseline and latex. In fact, as of the tests they had before this trip, no more latex at all, which somehow makes Vince tingly just thinking of it. Before Eric, he hadn’t had sex without a condom with anyone –  _anyone_  – since junior high.  
  
“I hope you aren’t going to get me pregnant,” Vince says, watching Eric concentrating so diligently on stretching him.  
  
Eric looks up, blinks, then smiles a half-grin, unsteady with want. “You’re such a freak,” he says, and leans forward to kiss him. Between that and Eric’s slick fingers inside him, two, then three, Vince closes his eyes, just feeling, just laying in the experience. So fucking good, he thinks, and then he says it, hears Eric grunt a response.  
  
And then Eric slides into him, and Vince opens his eyes. He makes sure to look at Eric, now, whenever they do it face to face, because otherwise Eric seems to take it as a sign that he’s hurting Vince, that something’s gone wrong. The truth is Vince has done this more than Eric: between the two of them, he’s been on the receiving end more, and he’s also done it with other guys, which Eric has not, and he’s very sure that he had more anal sex with women than Eric ever dared to ask for. Vince is comfortable with this. It feels good to him; it feels normal. He’s not sure Eric is there, yet, but he can tell he wants to be, so he meets his eyes and kisses him and waits for Eric to settle down and move.  
  
“C’mon,” he murmurs, rubbing Eric’s back with one hand and, then, with a little twisting, with one heel. “E, come on.”  
  
Eric’s eyes flutter, and his grip on Vince’s legs tightens, and he pulls back and thrusts in again. “Yeah,” Vince says, “like that, yeah, E, please.” Soon they’re going, and it’s so, so much better than anything else. This isn’t about technique at all – though Eric is still perfectly attentive, and Vince feels the sharp shudder-thrill when he changes his angle, just a little, to hit Vince’s prostate – this is about closeness, and pleasure, and the sexy, desperate look Eric gets, eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a white line, hands suddenly clutching at Vince like he’s the only solid thing in the world, just before he comes.   
  
And then the soft, slow slide onto his chest, the way that, for once, Vince gets to hold Eric, the way he’s never really held girls – with meaning, with wanting, with a soft, unspeakable tenderness between them. After, Vince can kiss the side of Eric’s head, his cheek, stroke up and down his damp back, and whisper – just soft things, “That’s it, baby, so fucking good” – without worrying he’ll be thought too girly or too soft or too, well, whatever, whatever it is he fought against all those years with all those girls.  
  
Eric finally stirs enough to pull back, so that Vince can uncurl his legs, and when he rolls to the side Vince follows him. He’s a little sticky but he doesn’t care, and he can see Eric’s too far gone to notice, either. His eyes are half open, and there’s a warm, goofy smile on his face that Vince can’t help but want to kiss. Eric cups his jaw, like he’s just checking in, but also like he’s maybe making sure he’s real, that the whole thing just, actually happened.  
  
“Hey,” he says, smiling.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Vince says, his voice deep, and Eric’s eyes close, his hand rubbing from Vince’s face down to his shoulder.  
  
Vince looks down at him, and he wonders if this is the time. Maybe this is when he’s supposed to say it. He’s in love with Eric, he knows it, he’s known it for a while, now – thanks, mostly, to his therapist. And he wants to let Eric know, but he hasn’t figured out the right time, the right place. The right way. He wants to do it in a way that Eric won’t feel obligated to say it right back. Vince, after all, has had the advantage of expensive counseling to help him deal with the fact that he’s madly, maybe once-in-a-lifetime in love with his best male friend. He’s not sure Eric’s as equally ready to sign on the forever-and-ever dotted line. Maybe he should be more worried about this – Eric, if he were a superhero, would be Captain InLove – but he gets that this is different. The thing is, he doesn’t at all doubt Eric’s love for him. He just thinks Eric may not be completely ready to vocalize it yet, and he doesn’t want to push.  
  
But he does want to be honest, and the truth is he’s very much in love with Eric. He even likes the little snorty sound he makes in his sleep sometimes, like he’s doing right now. Vince smirks, then settles down on the bed, staying close. Oh well, he thinks, closing his eyes, I can always tell him later.  
  
They wake up again mid-afternoon. Eric orders room service while Vince takes a shower, and then they switch places and Vince waits for the food. They eat sandwiches, and Vince drinks sparkling water – Eric likes his plain – and watches Eric tap on his computer.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asks, tired of hinting that Eric should put the thing away and entertain him.  
  
Eric snaps the computer closed. “What have I done, you mean,” he says, picking up the second half of his sandwich. They aren’t particularly good sandwiches, European imitations of what they think Americans would want: better bread than the stuff at home, but the rest of it – the sliced chicken and roasted beets and strangely tangy mayonnaise – is something else entirely.  
  
“So what have you done?” Vince asks, draining his bottle. He produces a loud burp and laughs when Eric rolls his eyes.  
  
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, “and later I might kiss your ass with it.”  
  
Eric raises one eyebrow, then shakes his head. “We’re going on a trip,” he says, and it’s Vince’s turn to look questioning. “Our train leaves at 5.”  
  
“Our train?”  
  
Eric nods and stands up. “Come on, I’ll help you pack.”  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“On a trip,” Eric says, already in the bedroom. “Weren’t you listening?”  
  
Vince follows him, leans on the doorjamb while Eric sorts through the laundry in his closet. “A big trip?” he asks.  
  
“Two nights,” Eric says, and two pairs of briefs zing onto the bed. It amuses Vince a little to know that Eric, who is a tried-and-true boxers guy, prefers him in briefs. Or, actually, in nothing, but it’s fucking cold outside. Winter in Austria is not the time you want your dick anywhere near a metal zipper without some cloth between.  
  
A few shirts and a pair of slacks join the underwear on the bed, and then Eric’s rolling it all up, neatly. It fits into the small green duffle that’s actually Johnny’s usual carry-on.  
  
“What about the guys?” Vince asks as Eric ducks into the bathroom.  
  
“Ah,” Eric says, emerging with Vince’s shaving kit in hand. “They’re taking a trip, too. Actually, they’re already on a trip.”  
  
“You drugged them?” Vince asks, ready to be both appalled and impressed. True, they haven’t had much time alone since arriving, what with the long filming hours and the work of keeping up everything’s-like-usual, just-buddies appearances with the guys, but this seems a pretty drastic step.  
  
Eric snorts. “No, I got them tickets to see U2 in Ireland Sunday night. I think your brother nearly jizzed his pants.”  
  
Vince laughs. “You have that effect on the Chase men,” he says, and laughs again at the sharp look of distaste on Eric’s face. “Where do they think we’re going?”  
  
“Scouting with Trina,” Eric says, and Vince groans. Trina is an AD, and she has a very obvious crush on Vince. She’s been bugging them to make a run with her out to the second location in Berlin, near where she also has a condo. Vince has, so far, dodged.  
  
“We aren’t actually –“  
  
“Nowhere near,” Eric says, tucking in a pair of socks.  
  
Vince tilts his head, to better glare at Eric. “So wait, you’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”  
  
“Once we’re on the train,” Eric says. He zips up the bag, then tosses it up to Vince. “Now come on, get your coat, we’d better get a move on.”  
  
Eric doesn’t budge about their destination until they’re standing at the ticket machine in the station, when Vince can’t help but see the writing on the ticket. “Italy?” he says, and Eric smiles.  
  
“Surprise,” he says, and gives him a little push. Vince wants to wrap his hands over Eric’s, suddenly, wants to pull him into a big, dramatic kiss right there in the terminal. Eric taps his shoulder. “Ten minutes. Hustle.”  
  
On the train, they have a compartment all to themselves, which is almost a better surprise than knowing they’re going back to Italy. “E, this is nice,” Vince says, after a uniformed train staffer drops in to make sure they’ll be comfortable. Their compartment has two single beds, one against each wall, and between there’s a slim shared beside table. They also have, to Vince’s surprise and delight, their own little bathroom with a tiny shower and sink and everything. “Whoa, this is  _way_  nice.”  
  
“We travel in style,” Eric says, rubbing Vince’s shoulder.  
  
Vince turns and smiles down at him. “I note there are two beds.”  
  
“I’m feeling virtuous,” Eric says. “Traveling into a Catholic country and all. Also, they call the double rooms the _matrimoniale_  suites.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess the Pope would have something to say about that,” Vince says, sitting on his bed. “Still, very nice.”  
  
Eric beams. “It’s gonna be a good trip.”  
  
Vince stretches out his bed with his pillow and bag propping him up, and Eric does the same on the opposite bench, his head against the wall with the window so they’re facing each other. It’s supposed to be a 9 hour trip, which seems daunting, but Eric’s bag has not only clothes but snacks and a fully-charged iPod video with speakers, on top of Eric’s laptop. About halfway through, they sneak out to the dining car and have a quiet dinner and complimentary drinks, watching the Italian Alps slide by. Vince keeps his hat on and no one seems to realize who he is, but he sees Eric getting twitchy toward the end of the meal, so he eats fast and doesn’t linger. Back in the room, they pull the shades and try to sleep. Vince knows it won’t take much for him to fall asleep, with the rocking of the train and the deprivation of the last few weeks still pressing on him, but he can hear Eric shuffling restlessly in the dark. He sighs, he coughs, he sighs again.  
  
“You want to come over here?” he asks.  
  
“Better not,” Eric says, though he sounds pretty regretful.   
  
“Just for a little while,” Vince says. “Lock the door.”  
  
So Eric does, which is nice, a good reminder that he wants this all as much as Vince does. They don’t really do anything, just lay there scrunched into the bed like they’re back in Vince’s little twin in Queens. Except this time, Vince puts his hand on Eric’s belly, under his shirt, and sometimes kisses the back of Eric’s neck while he talks. They rehash the filming so far, and this is something else that’s always been good for them; Vince’s days don’t feel real until he’s shared them with Eric, events don’t have the same meaning until they’ve broken them down together. Vince feels the rumble of Eric’s voice under his fingers, and that combined with the steady thrum of the train lulls him to sleep.  
  
They arrive in Rome at dawn. The train station is just as busy as Vince remembers it, people going in every direction, speaking every language. Around them, signs offer directions in Italian, German, English, and the occasional French. Eric seems to know where he’s going, so Vince follows gamely, keeping his head low, watching Eric’s sneakers on the pavement.  
  
They’re heading toward a cab stand, and Vince feels encouraged by this, ready to get out of the crush of people and the building bitterness of the wind, but Eric strikes out, instead, to the right, away from the cabs and the subway. “E?” Vince calls, hustling to catch up with him. “You do know where we’re going, right?”  
  
“Trust me,” Eric says. “And keep your head down.”  
  
That part Vince has no problem with. The last thing he wants right now is to get spotted. American crowds are bad enough, but European girls can get crazy fast. Partly, this is because when then come rushing at him, Vince usually has no idea what they’re saying. Partly it’s just because everywhere they go, there are  _so many people_  and so much less space.  
  
They don’t walk far before Eric stops in front of a sign for the Hotel Argosy. It’s a small sign, and looks to be a very small hotel. Vince doesn’t care; he just wants to get off the street. He follows Eric up the stairs and into a nice, narrow lobby. There’s a small marble front desk, and Eric heads there while Vince ducks back, happy to hang out with the palm trees and made-for-tourists brochures about seeing Rome in style.   
  
“Three fourteen,” Eric says, walking up after a minute. “No elevator.”  
  
“Good to stretch our legs after that trip anyway, huh?”  
  
They step into the stairwell and immediately out of the well-appointed marble-and-art glamour of the little lobby. This is just functional, concrete stairs, iron rails, the sound of other feet echoing a few floors up. When they get to the third floor, they step not back into luxury, but into a narrow, functional hallway with thin carpeting and pale, stained paint. Eric groans, and Vince pushes ahead to 314, stands carefully to the side while Eric unlocks the door, then follows him inside.  
  
The room has one double bed, a cramped bath, and a television on a narrow dresser. A tiny table with two padded chairs sits by the slim window. It looks for all the world like a Holiday Inn, down to the mauve carpet and beige blankets. Vince lets the door close and steps up next to Eric.  
  
Eric coughs, then clears his throat. “This isn’t exactly what I thought it would be,” he says, scratching his neck.  
  
Vince glances around. The room is small, sure, but it’s clean and warm, and surprisingly quiet for being so close to the station. He sits on the bed, which is firm but not uncomfortable. Eric looks disappointed, on the verge of embarrassed, and probably edging toward a very bad mood. “I don’t know, E,” Vince says, careful not to oversell it, “seems fine to me.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Vince smiles and reaches out, snags Eric by one belt loop. “There’s only one bed, though, so we might have to share.”  
  
“I thought about getting adjoining,” he says, “but I don’t think they have them.”  
  
“We’ll just have to make the best of this,” Vince says, sliding his hand up under Eric’s shirt, his fingers playing with the hair below Eric’s navel.  
  
“It’s a good rate, though, and they didn’t require a name to hold the room or anything, and I could pay cash,” he says.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Vince says, sliding his other hand around and into Eric’s back pocket. He gives him an encouraging squeeze, and Eric’s hands drop onto his shoulders.  
  
“We have dinner reservations at 8,” Eric says. “What do you want to do until then?”  
  
“Hmm,” Vince says, and he slowly unzips Eric’s jeans, where his cock is clearly more interested in Vince than Eric’s chatter would let on. He focuses his eyes on that promising bulge, whispers in Italian, _Via con me_. When Eric says, “What’s that?” Vince smiles.  
  
“I think I want to do a little sightseeing.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The thing is, Vince has been in Rome before. He’s seen the big sights – the Coliseum, the Pantheon, the fountains, Vatican City. Last time they were through, after  _Medellin_ , they even took a cruise down the Tiber, had dinner and danced in the moonlight with pretty Swedish turistas. And while that’s a little tempting, it would require letting people know where he is – and the anonymity of being in a city of 3 million while everyone in the world thinks he’s in Austria, well, that’s the big deal in Rome this weekend. So instead of sightseeing, when they leave the hotel, Vince has one thing on his mind: he wants to play normal.  
  
He knows this is what Eric has in mind, too, from the way he’s careful to remind Vince to wear his hat and sunglasses, and from what he said before about not having to provide names to reserve their room. Besides, if all Eric wanted was a weekend of room service and sex, well, with Johnny and Turtle traveling, they could’ve stayed in Austria.  
  
It makes him a little nervous to be out in public, because in a city like Rome there are certainly paparazzi – it’s an Italian term, after all, from Fellini. But most people don’t give them a second glance, and Vince starts to relax, to feel like they’re blending in – well, at least, they’re blending into the usual American crowd.  
  
So they spend the afternoon just wandering around town, avoiding the big tourist spots and instead just looping through the streets on the edge of the city center. They drink espresso at a corner bar, eat panini and get glasses of wine at a small trattoria, and browse lines of stores. In the back of a small shop that specializes in pipes, several of which Vince thinks Turtle might like, Eric reaches over to get his attention by resting his hand on Vince’s arm, and he doesn’t move it away while they look at the display. Vince sees a selection of hand-carved wooden pipes in a glass case in the corner, and slides his hand down into Eric’s to pull him toward it. That doesn’t last long – they both jump when the shop owner starts speaking in rapid-fire Italian to someone on the phone – but just standing there, it’s all Vince can focus on, the furtiveness of it, the risk, the warmth of Eric’s palm in his.  
  
Standing on the curb outside of the shop, he thinks maybe  _this_  is the time. He looks over, ready to say it,  _E, I love you_ , but Eric’s squinting at his watch.  
  
“We should maybe get a cab to dinner,” he says, and Vince nods and follows along.  
  
Dinner is at a small, busy restaurant on Via del Corso called Acqua. Inside, all of the walls have been painted blue, and a bubbling glass aquarium sits in the center of their table. It looks like a place one might find in, well, L.A. Vince glances from the aquarium to Eric, and Eric shrugs.  
  
“It came highly recommended,” he says.  
  
“Who knows we’re here?” Vince asks.  
  
“Nobody,” Eric says, and even in the blue light, Vince is pretty confident that Eric’s blushing. It’s fucking  _adorable_.  
  
“So who –“  
  
“Lloyd,” he says. “I said we might travel again, after filming, but that we’d done Italy, and he said, oh, you haven’t ‘done’ Italy until you’ve been to Acqua in Rome.”  
  
Vince grins. “You do realize, taking recommendations from Lloyd, this is probably some Italian gay hotspot.”  
  
Eric shakes his head. “Give me some credit, I checked it out.”  
  
“Hey, I’m not saying that’s a deal breaker,” Vince says, and Eric coughs.  
  
“Don’t start looking, pal,” he says, and Vince smiles and squeezes Eric’s knee under the table.  
  
The food is superb. They both have salads, then heaping bowls of pasta – linguine carbonara for Eric, gnocchi in pesto for Vince – followed by a main course with meat. Vince picks beef, a thin Florentine-style steak, while Eric gets a pork chop that cuts like butter, and the vegetables on the side – grilled eggplant, it looks like, and carrots – are fantastic. Over all of that, of course, there’s wine. He’s too stuffed to consider dessert, but when Eric suggests they take a stroll and maybe get a coffee or gelato along the way, well, Vince can’t resist. He is being romanced in Rome, he realizes, and gets that happy-warm feeling as they step outside.  
  
“This is really cool, E. I love this,” Vince says, after they’ve walked a bit and reached the river. There are people up and down the path, many of them couples, some just groups of kids. He puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder, carefully, and leans close to him. If anyone recognizes them, well, it’s nothing out of the realm of wine-drunken friendly.  
  
“Yeah?” Eric smiles over at him. “I just thought it might be nice, to have a little break.”  
  
“No kidding,” Vince says. Filming so far has been pretty intense, long nights, sometimes longer days, with weapons training and choreography on top of it all, so that Vince feels like he’s been sore and tired for years.  
  
“And...” Eric shrugs. “We had a pretty good time in Seattle, right?”  
  
Vince nods. They’ve never really talked about this. It is very, very Eric to want a do-over. “I had a great time.”   
  
Eric’s mouth quirks up. “Except for that ending.”  
  
“Yeah, except for that,” Vince agrees. They step out from the shelter of the shrubbery lining the path and into full view of the water below. It’s chilly here, the wind coming in cold spurts across the river. Rome was supposed to be warmer, Vince thinks, but all of Europe has been colder than usual this winter, which Johnny reminds him of every day on set.  
  
Vince takes a deep breath. “About that,” he says quietly, watching his breath form a little cloud in the air. “I’m sort of glad, you know?” Eric glances over. “Things had to change,” he says. “The way things were before – it wasn’t good. It wasn’t so good as this, at least.”  
  
Eric smiles. “I guess that’s true.” He stops, and so Vince stops, too. Eric rests his forearms on the railing separating them from the river. “This summer, though,” he says, and glances up and over.  
  
“Could I have done without going to jail? Yeah,” Vince says. “But the rest of it – I think I needed to see how messed up things could get.”  
  
Eric sighs. “Never again, though, right?”   
  
Vince smiles. “I hope not.” Eric’s looking over at him, a slightly amused, slightly concerned expression on his face, and again, Vince thinks maybe this is the time. He could slide over just a little, so his elbow is touching Eric’s, and say something good, about how he came through all of this shit and what it’s taught him is he loves Eric. That would probably work out pretty well.  
  
Instead, though, he looks out over the water, and says, “Thanks for setting this up.”  
  
“What, you thought I’d let you spend your time off in the comfort of your own hotel suite, surrounded by your closest friends and room service?”  
  
“Never.” Vince grins back at Eric. He slides closer but doesn’t say anything else. For a while, it’s enough just to be there, their arms pressed close, the sound of Eric’s breath soothing in Vince’s ear.  
  
“C’mon,” Eric says after a bit, his hand resting briefly on the small of Vince’s back, “I’m fucking freezing.”  
  
By the time they make it back to the hotel, Vince is freezing, too. His feet hurt, his legs hurt, his head is even starting to hurt a little. “Oh, God, warmth!” Vince crows when they reach the room, and he dives under the covers and curls up. Eric joins him immediately.  
  
“Who would’ve thought getting a cab would be that hard?” he asks, his teeth chattering.  
  
“Tourists,” Vince grumbles. He inches forward and tucks his head down close to his chest. “Fucking Americani.”  
  
Eric laughs, but it’s a high, strangled laugh followed by a shudder. Unlike Vince, he didn’t wear his hat out, and Vince can see the purplish red of his ears even in the sheet-filtered light. He untucks one of his hands and reaches over, closes his thumb and forefinger over the tip of Eric’s ear. Eric hisses but moves in closer, and soon Vince draws his head in against his chest. Eric is still shivering all over, whereas Vince has calmed to only the occasional shudder.  
  
“Easy, easy,” Vince murmurs, putting his arms around Eric’s back. The skin on the back of his neck is still night-cool. “Maybe you ought to take a shower or something.”  
  
“Do I smell?”  
  
“Like lilacs,” Vince says, grinning. He rubs his hands up and down Eric’s arms. “When’s our train leave Sunday?”  
  
“Flight,” Eric says. “Three.”  
  
“Mm, air travel, fancy,” Vince says. “Guess it doesn’t matter if we’re on the manifest as we’re leaving, huh?”  
  
“That’s my theory.” Eric’s shivers have finally slowed, though his hands are still cold where they’re pressed against Vince’s chest. Slowly, though, Vince feels one of Eric’s hands start to stroke downward, and he tilts his head back to take a better look at Eric’s face. His eyes are closed, his mouth drawn down; he looks worn out. Vince catches his hand just before it slides under his waistband.  
  
“You know,” he says, pulling Eric’s hand back up and tucking it under both of his own, “we don’t have to.”  
  
Eric’s eyes blink open, and his gaze is a clear question:  _You don’t want to?_  Vince laughs.  
  
“I’m happy to have sex with you anytime, anywhere,” he says. “But I’m also pretty happy just being here, you know. Just lying around, staying warm.”  
  
“Hmm,” Eric says, a real noise of consideration. After a moment, he shifts, so his head is more neatly tucked under Vince’s chin. “We do have a lot of sex.”  
  
“Well, we have some time to make up for,” Vince says. Eric makes an agreeable grunt. “Plus between the two of us, it’s a wonder we aren’t in treatment.”  
  
“What’s –“  
  
“You haven’t gotten laid nearly enough in your life,” Vince says. “And I –“  
  
“You’re easy,” Eric says warmly, his arms going around Vince’s back.  
  
Vince snorts. “Thanks, E.”  
  
“I just meant – look, I’ll take it back if we ever go out and there aren’t at least three girls you’ve banged at the bar.”  
  
“Let’s go right now,” Vince suggests.  
  
“In L.A.,” Eric amends. “Though I like my odds in New York, too.”  
  
Vince is too comfortable to really argue. And, OK, there’s probably some truth in that. “I’m not easy,” he says, anyway. “I just – had some time, there, where I enjoyed my fair share of casual flings.”  
  
“Some time,” Eric says, shaking his head. “Like from puberty until about a month ago.”  
  
“Actually, until about six months ago,” Vince says, and then Eric looks up. “Since rehab, it’s only been you,” he says, and watches Eric blink.  
  
He settles back against Vince, after a pause. “Well, no wonder you’re up for it all the time. It’s like quitting smoking cold turkey.”  
  
“You think there’s a patch?” Vince asks. “Like a little picture of your cock I could stick on my arm?”  
  
Eric laughs. “Get a tattoo, it’ll last longer.”  
  
“With a heart around it,” Vince says, laughing, too. When Eric shoves him, teasing, he falls backwards. Eric rolls onto him, still settled against his chest, but the movement has brought something else to Vince’s attention: Eric is hard. “Oh, now who’s easy?” Vince asks, moving his thigh so it rubs Eric just right.  
  
“He heard his name,” Eric says, not moving.  
  
Vince grins and moves his leg again, sets up a nice, careful rubbing rhythm. Eric’s face is close enough that he can watch every change flicker across, and so he does, from the tiny twitch of his eyebrow to the sudden, surprising parting of his lips as he gasps. Vince puts his hands on Eric’s waist to help steady him, but keeps watching, fascinated, not doing anything else but providing some nice friction until, with another tiny gasp, Eric comes.  
  
“I hope you have other pants,” Vince says, kissing his forehead.  
  
“I hope you…” Eric murmurs, but he’s already asleep.  
  


* * *

  
  
The next morning, Vince wakes up first, which is strange enough. What’s even stranger is that Eric’s breathing has acquired a strange hitch in the night, a snuffling that’s not part of his usual repertoire. It’s not that Vince has had a lot of opportunities to sleep close to Eric – in fact, not nearly as many chances as he would like, because theirs is still a relationship that regularly requires one or the other to sneak out under cover of darkness – but he knows him well enough to know something’s off. “E?” he whispers, and Eric snorts and rolls to his side, and the noise stops. Vince rubs his back a little, just listening to him sleep, then decides to get up himself. It’s almost ten, after all. He slips out of bed and takes his shower, and by the time he comes back in, Eric’s sitting up, his head against the wall. Vince sits next to him, and Eric stirs and shakes his head.  
  
“You OK?”  
  
“Yeah,” Eric says, and then he sneezes. “Shit.”  
  
“A cold?”  
  
Eric shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe." His voice is thick-sounding, gravelly. Stuffed up. “I’ll probably feel better after a shower.”  
  
“Uh-huh.” Vince wonders if there’s room service in this place. They’re going to need some orange juice, stat.  
  
Eric looks a little perkier after his shower, enough that they get dressed – Vince back in his hat, Eric in a similar one – and venture out to a café that the receptionist recommends. Over juice – Vince orders two glasses for them both, because they come in very small cups – and pastries, Eric talks about maybe going to a shopping district further south. Vince can see, though, that he’s not feeling particularly sharp. His eyelids are a little pink, and his voice gets deeper and deeper as the meal progresses. When they step onto the curb, Eric sneezes and presses the heel of his hand against his eye socket.  
  
“OK, come on,” Vince says, taking Eric by the arm. “Back to the hotel.”  
  
“What are you –“  
  
“There’s a pharmacy near us, right? I thought I saw that.”  
  
“Vince, I’m fine,” Eric says. “We can –“  
  
“You think I want to drag your sneezy ass around all day?” Eric blinks and looks briefly hurt. “E, I just meant – if you don’ t feel good, we can rest. Maybe you’ll feel better by tonight.”  
  
“This isn’t the way I thought it would go,” Eric says miserably, and Vince puts his arm around his shoulders.  
  
“A little rest, you’ll be good as new."  
  
It doesn’t work out that way. They go back and Eric gets back in bed, the covers pulled up close. Vince ducks out to the pharmacy, even though it makes him nervous, and tries to explain the problem to the Italian-speaking clerk using the tiny bit of Italian he remembers from home. His mother’s curse-words aren’t much help here, though, so finally he just fake-sneezes a couple of times and gets a packet of what he hopes is the Italian equivalent of Sudafed. Eric takes two – they’re pretty sure that’s what the directions suggest – and then falls asleep with his head on Vince’s shoulder, watching the international version of CNN.  
  
And it should be boring, or gross, or weird, but what Vince feels is that little ping of happy-warm all over again. Yeah, they’re in Rome, and yeah, he could pick up the phone right now and make plans for the evening and Eric probably really wouldn’t even mind, would just want him to be having a good time, but all he wants is to be right there. He wants to make Eric feel better, he wants to be the one person in the world who not only can do that but who is charged with it. He wants to do it forever, and he feels a little giddy at that realization. Eric shifts, and Vince quiets him, rubbing his shoulder, kissing his hair.  
  
So this is what he’s signing up for, Vince realizes, looking down at Eric’s pale face. Days when he has to choose between the fun, freewheeling life he’s used to and staying in with Eric. It won’t always be sex and laughing. This is the stuff he’s avoided with girls for years, the  _being there_  stuff. The  _obligation_  stuff. The  _love_  stuff.  
  
It’s not so bad.  
  
Vince reaches around Eric to the bedside table and picks up the phone. It rings through to the desk, and he uses his best English-Spanish mix to ask the clerk what kind of restaurants are within walking distance but not too close to the train station, and where he might find some soup. She gives him directions that seem to make sense, and after he hangs up, Vince writes down what he remembers. When he gets up, Eric stirs and blinks up at him. “Where are you going?”  
  
“To pick up some dinner,” Vince says. He puts his hand on the side of Eric’s face. He’s warm to the touch, but that could be from sleeping. “It’s not far.”  
  
“I’ll go with,” Eric says, sitting up slowly.  
  
“You don’t have to,” Vince says. “E, it’s not that far away. You should rest.”  
  
“I feel fine, though,” he says, pulling on a sweatshirt. “Maybe those drugs kicked in a little.” He smiles up at Vince. “Besides, you must be bored out of your mind. I think I was dreaming about CNN.”  
  
Vince laughs and offers Eric a hand to get out of bed. This is what he’s signing up for, too, of course. Eric clearly doesn’t feel fine – his movements are a little slow, his voice still low – but he’s trying. They’re both trying. Vince beams at him, and Eric gives him a funny look.  
  
“I hope me being sick isn’t a turn on,” he says, and Vince rolls his eyes.  
  
“That’s a whole other kind of sick,” Vince says. “You sure you’re all right?”  
  
“What, you got somebody waiting on you there?” Vince scoffs. “So let’s go. You think they have soup?”  
  
Dinner isn’t nearly as nice as the night before, but they still have pretty good food and a lot of it. The waiter brings them extra bread and warmed brandy for Eric, and they both get a little toasted before they head back to the hotel. Inside, Eric takes a shower because he says the steam helps, then he takes another two Italian Sudafed capsules and falls right to sleep – though before all of that, he helps Vince set up the computer, so he can watch a movie instead of CNN. He picks an old favorite stored on the hard drive,  _The Bicycle Thief_ , and makes it halfway through before he falls asleep tucked up close to Eric. Not a bad day after all.  
  


* * *

  
  
Eric doesn’t feel better the next morning, Vince can tell, but he again puts on a good show of being just fine. It’s both adorable and annoying, Vince decides as he watches Eric struggling valiantly to carry his bag with one hand and find a Kleenex in his pocket with the other.  
  
“Let me,” Vince says, pulling the bag off Eric’s shoulder. Eric starts to protest, then just shakes his head and smiles over at him, a tired,  _OK, you win_  smile. “You want to see if we can get an earlier flight?” he asks, rubbing Eric’s shoulder sympathetically.  
  
“Let’s just go to lunch,” Eric says. “Ari suggested this one, it should be good.”   
  
Vince doesn’t bother to point out that Eric’s not going to be able to taste anything. They leave the room and check their bags at the front desk of the hotel, then take a cab what feels halfway across the city. Vince gets a bad feeling the minute they step out in front of the restaurant. It has a tall, green-painted façade with its name in gold letters across the front and wide windows. It looks exactly like a place Ari would recommend, because it is exactly the kind of place that one goes to get noticed.  
  
Eric sighs. “Fucking Ari,” he says, and sneezes.  
  
Vince glances down the street. It’s mostly upscale shopping, but there’s a bar on the corner that looks welcoming. “Come on,” he says, turning quickly that direction, knowing Eric will follow.  
  
The bar is a good choice. The inside is dark, and though the bar itself does steady, standing-room business in espresso and cappuccino, the small café part in the back has a few booths open. Vince and Eric grab one in the corner, and Vince keeps his back turned to the street window while they eat. He has the meaty lasagna, treating himself to one last carb hurrah before getting back to the set, while Eric has bowl of farfalle with marinara that, when Vince steals a taste, has a spicy bite that’s probably good for Eric’s cold. Their waiter is friendly and solicitous, even brings Eric a glass of blood-orange juice with his compliments, and sends them away with boxed pieces of tiramisu.  
  
“See, that was –" Vince starts as they walk to the door, but a shiver runs down his spine. The crowd by the coffee bar has all paused, almost as one, and he feels their eyes on him. Recognizing him. His stomach flips. When the noise picks up again, it’s in excited whispers, and Eric puts both hands on Vince’s shoulders and says, “Move.”  
  
He pushes him out into the street, where there’s a whole new crowd waiting – this one armed with cameras: tourists and probably a few actual paparazzi. Vince tucks his head down and his arms in, and crushes his to-go box in the process, hears it fall to the ground. He relies on Eric to guide him through, goes forward, sideways, forward again as fast as his feet will take him. Along the way, hands scrabble against his coat sleeve and, once, up into his hair until he jerks away and pulls his hat down tighter. “Move, move, get out of the way, come on!” Eric’s yelling, and Vince dodges in between two stopped cars at Eric’s urging. They catch a cab in the street, literally just throw themselves inside even though there’s already someone sitting in the backseat. Vince’s heart is pounding, his shirt is smeared with leaked bits of cream from the dessert, and when he raises his hand to try and clean that off, he sees angry red scratches on the backs of his fingers.  
  
Eric’s busy giving the cabbie money and then apologizing to the other passenger and offering him a handful of euros to hop out, which he does at the next intersection. When he turns to Vince, Vince is still holding his hands out in front of him.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” Eric whispers, “Jesus fucking Christ. Are you OK?”  
  
“Yeah,” Vince says, though he doesn’t feel it. The adrenaline is starting to fall off and he’s shaking a little. It’s still like this every time, still this scary and exhausting. He wants to curl up, maybe slide under Eric’s shoulder, block out the street beyond and the memory of high-pitched shrieking in his ears, but he’s aware – hyperaware, at the moment – of the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, of the people who are so close on the sidewalks outside. He tucks his hands into his sleeves and slumps back in the seat, closes his eyes, turns away from Eric. “Let’s just go to the airport, OK?”  
  
“We gotta get our bags,” Eric says, and Vince considers momentarily just telling him to fuck it, they can get new stuff, but he can’t even do that. There’s always the chance someone will figure out whose abandoned bags they are, and in a month he’ll see his underwear – or worse, God, the lube – on e-Bay.  
  
Eric darts out at the hotel and picks up their things, and then they drive out to the airport. There will be cameras waiting there, too, Vince is sure of it, but at least he’s prepared, now. He slides back into the careful, shielded mindset he uses when he’s in L.A., when he knows he’s going to get his picture taken and has to just accept it. They step out at the Leonardo da Vinci airport and, sure enough, within minutes there are flashes. Eric carries their bags and Vince dodges in through security, where he’s greeted as Signor Chase and doesn’t have to go through the metal detectors. They hustle them off to their gate and offer a small office for them to wait in while they secure the gate area.  
  
The door closes and Vince drops into one of the bench seats. Eric, still standing, is panting and dabbing at his nose. He blows it, then throws the Kleenex away and gets out his cell phone. Vince listens to him explain the situation to Shauna, with a few minor glosses – day trip to Rome, seeing some people from last time. “Just in case you get questions,” he says. “I’m sure AFP will have something. And hey, sorry about the time.”  
  
After another minute, he hangs up and sits next to Vince. “What’d she say?”  
  
“Not much. Thanked me for the heads-up,” Eric says. Vince nods. People probably will call, because the photos will be online within the next few hours. Everyone will want to know if it’s connected to the movie, if they’re filming in Italy now, if Vince has walked off the set or something. This is his first film since the whole rehab debacle, so he’s being watched pretty closely for signs of falling back into “the party life.” If only they knew, Vince thinks, and glances at Eric.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Eric says, shaking his head. “This is so not at all how I expected this to go. That hotel, and then – I never should have listened to Ari –"  
  
“E, I love you,” Vince says, and Eric’s head whips around in disbelief, so fast that Vince laughs. “I mean, I love you for trying, too, but I also – I’m in love with you.” Eric blinks, and Vince smiles. Through the fiberglass window, he sees a security officer approaching. “I just wanted you to know that,” he says.  
  
Eric’s mouth drops open at the same time the office door swings in. “Signor Chase? Your plane is ready,” a uniformed man says.  
  
Vince nods and stands up smoothly, takes his own bag, and heads for the door.  
  
They arrive back in Innsbruck and face a similar smattering of photographers. A car from the set picks them up, the driver a familiar face, and takes them straight back to the hotel. Vince goes right to his room and finds Johnny and Turtle already waiting, ready to show off photos from the concert. “So how was Berlin?” Turtle asks after they’ve been through Johnny’s thirty-minute recount of the entire set list.  
  
“Rome, actually,” Eric says, and Vince watches him. Of course, he realizes, they have to change the story now. They were spotted. “Trina changed her mind last minute, so we decided to skip town for a while.”  
  
“Yeah? Hey, you should’ve come up,” Johnny says, and Vince smiles across at him.  
  
“I was lucky to get two tickets,” Eric says.  
  
“So what’d you do?” Turtle asks, raising an eyebrow that says he knows exactly what Vince was doing.  
  
“A lot of sightseeing,” Vince says, grinning back, just as suggestively. “You guys hungry?”  
  
They order in, and after dinner, Turtle and Johnny hang out even though Vince really, really wants them to leave. Eric falls asleep in the armchair, and Vince finally feigns a similar exhaustion and shuffles them out. Then he sits on the arm and squeezes Eric’s shoulder to wake him.  
  
He wakes with a sneeze that brings him upright, then sags back into the chair. “Christ, I hope you don’t get this,” he says.  
  
“So far, so good,” Vince says. He rubs Eric’s shoulder, a little, and wonders if they should move to the couch, where he could give Eric an actual massage.  
  
Eric blinks up at him. “Yo.”  
  
“Hey.” Vince smiles down at him. Love you, he thinks, and he can tell Eric’s seeing that because he smiles, too.  
  
“I love you, too,” he says, and Vince feels his smile split a little wider. “But don’t kiss me, all right? God forbid I have mono or something.”  
  
Vince nods. He moves his hand up, runs his fingers through Eric’s hair. “So this is what it’s like,” he says, concentrating on the feel of Eric’s hair, his scalp, his warm skin.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Being in love,” Vince says. “Is this why – all those times –“  
  
Eric frowns. He rests his hand on Vince’s leg. “Yes, and no,” he says. “Yeah, this is what it’s like. No, this isn’t what it was like, not really.”  
  
Vince squints and pulls back. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean this is all new for me, too,” he says. “It’s crazy, right? I’ve known you for fucking ever, but now – it’s like I see you sitting across from me at breakfast, and I just – I feel like I’m lighting up a different way.” He blinks. “Jesus, I sound crazy. What’s in those pills, huh?”  
  
But Vince knows exactly what he’s talking about. He leans forward, ignoring Eric’s tiny protest, and kisses his forehead, then his temple. “It’s good. This is good,” he says.  
  
“This is great.” Eric’s eyes close, and Vince is still near enough to see every individual eyelash. It’s weird, it’s crazy, it’s sickening, maybe, but he loves them all, every last pale one.


End file.
